


do you like drugs (tonight)

by s_t_c_s



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Clothing Shenanigans, Dancing, Drinking, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Idiots, It's all going on, Masturbation, Oral Fixation, Protected Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rio talking about his one singular feeling, Semi-Public Sex, Smoking, Time Is Fake, Unprotected Sex, anti-tall propaganda, boning under the influence, established nonsense, gardener pov, high pov, hydration, light ass play, rio does have some decent advice to offer but god would you listen to this moron no ofc not, rio makes a lot of sense and beth listens really well...hahaha just kidding, snacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:26:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_t_c_s/pseuds/s_t_c_s
Summary: For the kink fest prompt #17:"Beth and Rio is meeting potential clients and gets slipped/ or voluntary take (which ever you prefer) e or poppers. Drug use and sex. Anal play."set post s3, beth pov
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio, Beth Boland/Sleep
Comments: 54
Kudos: 120
Collections: Good Girls Kinkfest 2020





	do you like drugs (tonight)

**Author's Note:**

> contains recreational drug use, boning under the influence, light ass play & explicit sexual content (and, ofc, nonsense)

“So,” Annie says, shimmying her upper body the oblique way that makes those lengthening waves surge at her shoulders. “Given any more thought to the motorbike?”

“No.” It flops forth firm, though Beth was actually aiming for sterner.

See, she’s been thinking about a second car of late. Made this mistake the other day – confessing to the dream of such a ludicrous indulgence. Hauling the van around when she’s kidless for weeks at a go can just feel… _silly_. And, yeah, she should be saving rather than spending. But things are good right now; it’s nice to – aspire.

Annie had, of course, run with the idea. Leapt it elsewhere, kitted out in a leather jacket and…recklessness.

The problem is her sister’s joie de vivre, along with that impish smile, is too damn infectious, especially when perched _directly_ opposite.

The corners of Beth's own mouth jiggle up, primordial susceptibility tweaking. Despite intent, bobbles of amusement pierce through her next words, “I’m not getting a motorbike.”

It’s reminiscent of the stuffing of Kenny’s still-damaged beanbag, how those little white blobs poke, then pour, through its ripped seam. The dinky devils manage to run _all_ over the floor. Shit, Beth better tend to it this weekend, or she has no idea when she might have time. Re-repairing is the right route; she’s not shelling out for another sham chair a mere six months in.

Her head stirs, tries to steer past the dead-end topic. Annie’s here for a purpose after all.

“Stop distracting me! I really have to finish up with the…” Her eyes dart. “ _Paperwork_.”

Annie snicks a laugh, how she always does for Beth’s attempts at surreptitious.

True, Fridays are typically pretty quiet, this one proving no exception. There aren’t a lot of people, staff included, around. But that’s not grounds for discarding their safeguards. Annie’s forever _unreasonably_ eager to rib her.

Beth sets her attention to the notebook in front of her again, ruler to hand. Technically there’s no hard deadline of tonight. But she grew used to Rio’s – caprices. That quirk of starting her week off wrong, popping up on the Mondays she can least handle dealing with his… Misery-magnetisation; magnification, even. It’s less common these days, yeah, but she doesn’t want even the phantom of that possibility hanging over her well-earned break. Needs the next couple of days to be calm, easy ones, to be able to dump this stuff behind her through their respite.

“How is, uh, Steaming Spas doing?” Annie prolongs, thumbs hooking on belt loops. Something about her stance suggests she’s about to whip an apple from thin air to start chewing slow; as if settling for surveillance, rooted to the ground where she stands in front of the desk.

Beth sighs. Swallows the temptation to point out, once more, that, for starters, that is not the name of this establishment. Or, presumably, any. But it’s not like Annie doesn’t _know_. And mentioning the Boland name, which Annie has flat out refused to utter since the divorce (finding an almost sadistic pleasure in silencing Dean out of existence, at least within her vocabulary) is a sure-fire way to invite a, likely extensive, monologue.

One that would no doubt make Beth feel duty bound to point out that it’s still the name of her children, which’d almost certainly set Annie off again with her recent go-to – threatening to gift all four of them new legal names for Christmas. And – and Beth gets it, sure. Annie means well. But it’s kind of. Exhausting.

“Don’t you have…. _stuff_ to do?”

Beth tilts her head to the back room, causing Annie’s snorting to escalate. Though she does go easily enough. Well, after some emphatic shoos.

They’re yet to source a press of their own, much to their collective chagrin. Beth’s kept up (closing, mostly) shifts at the Porcupine, claiming (barely plausibly, she worried, at least initially) to love the place, and Lucy’s memory, so much that she can’t stand to leave entirely. Despite needing to spend a lot of time at – well, _Steaming Spas_ , as Annie’d phrase it.

Still, a place of – fine not quite her, or their, own, but at least with areas that can be entirely absent of employees’ scrutiny has allowed them to move some prep, cutting, so on, to _this_ unremarked backroom. No one’d really batted an eye at the light nepotism of Beth hiring her baby sister to do some occasional work down there either. Supply stocking and so forth, she’d termed it, in a tone implying makework; fleecing sympathy.

By five o’clock though Annie’s underfoot once more, her legs propped on Beth’s desk as she wheedles about tequila, how they never hang our just the two of them any more.

She did promise to drop her home tonight, since Annie’s carless _again_. In truth, she hadn’t been entirely paying attention to the explanatory spiel. Beth thinks it involved a ticket and an incident with a side mirror, possibly not in that order. Or necessarily the singular.

The idea of hitting a bar does _sound_ appealing. But her sister’s clearly in a madcap mood (understandable with all that’s been going on, and the fresh war with Greg it’s forded) underneath the happy veneer, and Beth’s not sure she wants to get roped into anything...adventurous.

It’s been a _week_ , and she’s exhausted. Desperately needs to imbibe a double dose of rest because next Friday the kids’ll be returned to her. And that’s the _best_ , of course it is, of course they are, but if she doesn’t soak up the option for shuteye when it’s presented, it’d be foolish to think there’ll be another chance till at least a half past too late. No matter what Annie says about it being her guilt shimmering reality with its untrue perspective, it does feel to Beth like her babies are more demanding of attention, clingier, than in days of old.

She’s still trying to wind Annie down easy when her phone goes. Beth tilts the display to her, instinctive explanation.

“Gangfriend,” she immediately whispers, in a disturbingly respectful way. And then Annie _shuts up_. Which is annoying. If anyone should inspire that level of deference, surely it should be the older sibling who half-raised her. Not some _interloper_.

But Beth’ll take the quiet how she can get it.

“Hello?” she greets, a little high, a little inquisitive.

Like they don’t do this every time, like she hasn’t got his number saved.

Beth trains her eyes on the sunlight dancing refractions upon a spot of carpet, rather than engaging with Annie’s wince.

“Yeah,” he starts, flowing without so much as a polite preliminary. The, “Be out front, 6:40,” cutting through her concretely offhand acknowledgement of his identity.

“What,” Beth says. Not least because it’s a bizarre time to meet. On the early side first of all, and – _really_? Half-hours, quarter-hours, those are…slots.

He doesn’t repeat the demand, nor say anything further.

“ _Why_?” she insists. They’re not. They _don’t_. And – _well_. While she’s not back to dealing with _only_ Mick again (not that she’d have too many complaints if she were, at least _he_ isn’t hell to speak with, actually has a functioning sense of humour too), the rotation’s certainly been mixed up anew. Not quite enough that an independent observer might declare avoidance exactly, but the contrast to, um, their _interlude_ is – palpable.

Plus when she and Rio do interact, respectable distance tends to be maintained. Not just by her. She’s honestly been almost weirdly sort of – proud of him for it. The uncharacteristic…sanity.

Gesturing is what draws her vision; Annie’s eyebrows have waggled practically up past forehead. She’s mouthing incoherent shapes, possibly believes those represent words. Maybe even ones in English.

Rio’s voice interrupts her half-assed interpretation attempts. “Got the thing.”

Beth’s mind races to plug the gaps as she twiddles her chair toward the windows, letting the sun bask her face as her eyes snug shut; the bright of the rays somehow better appreciated when their source has noticeably nudged well past noon's half-mast, reminding that it'll fall too soon beyond horizon for the night. How it bleaches away at the back of her eyelids is, yes, not without merit.

The...meet? That’s what’s he’s on about, maybe.

“So?” She’s fronting basically none of her confusion.

He sounds _snooty_ when he responds, “Well, it was your idea…”

She huffs. That supposition is _so_ not true. Not for this deformed version of the scheme, anyway. He can say it as often as he wishes, there is no magic number which will make him correct.

Still, the chance to be involved – in that side of things, just _more_ , is not one she’s willing to sniff at. Jesus, the possibility of having some concept of what a trial means in this context (whether this’ll blow into a situation for her, end up completely disconnected, result in her getting _franchised_ , be pried from her hands without her say-so, or some much nuttier angle she cannot yet predict) is…appealing. That it is one, a trial, is basically the only thing Rio’s said on the subject, really. Beth can’t tell if it’s meant in allayment, or threat, or simply as boilerplate vagueness designed to shut questions down. No, inclusion is precious; useful. Would allow her to find out what the hell is happening. To _steer_ , even.

Her hand travels slow over the maroon slacks, top of right thigh to almost knee. That firm grip pushes against muscle, anchoring.

“I can be there,” she offers, business-bland. “Just tell me the address, I can drive myself.”

She is. Not eager to spend more time than necessary with him. Especially in an enclosed space. Alone. That has a habit of – derailing, and such is hardly what’s needed.

“Ha.”

“What–”

“6:40. Out front.”

And then he _hangs up_. The dick.

“What’s up?” Annie asks tentatively, eyes travelling Beth’s still gasp-affronted face as her nostrils flare in the general direction of her cell.

“Um.” Her brain leaves its stew, spills forward for a to-do list. “It’s. It’s fine.” She offers Annie a placating gesture. “Hey, could you drop my car at mine?”

Annie nods, after a beat, so Beth fishes for her keys.

“Abandoning me, huh?”

Beth looks her full-on. “I’m sorry,” she says. And she means it. It’s just–

But she’s waved off with a grin.

“I can pay for your cab from mine?”

Annie does that agreeing-but-not shrug, grabs the keys tossed her way.

Not long after she’s headed out, Beth takes herself to the very locked backroom, muttering beneath her breath.

Jaunts of this type aren’t _exactly_ why she’d taken to keeping a couple of changes of clothes back here. But – but maybe they were on the list. Kinda high. Though that was then, and now is. Yeah. _Right_.

She teeters out of her work outfit fast, looking over Annie’s tidying appreciatively. Pulls on the newest dress. It’s _both_ fancier and more casual than she tends to wear here, though not the kind of thing entirely implausible for the saleswoman scenario. It’s black, sort of lacy in the skirt, more structure to the top.

At the last moment Beth decides to ditch the pantyhose, feeling sweaty enough already. In her palms. The backs of her knees.

She plucks the strappy heels out the bottom of the closet.

Beth ensures that Bobby’s okay with locking up alone en route to the bathroom to freshen up properly.

Annie texts her just as she’s traipsing outside, attempting to fumble the buttons of her jacket closed one-handed. It’s just the words ‘bad news…’ accompanied by a couple of grimacing emojis.

And – shit. Ever since Beth chucked the keys at her, there’s been an undercurrent of worry prickling at the base of her brain for it, even while her thoughts were slipping onward to what in hell her evening now has in store for her. Cos maybe she should have _listened_ to whatever Annie’s car plight situation was and–

The picture of her van, safely ensconced on her driveway, comes through – Annie, and her deuces, in prime position. It’s followed by another message: ‘unfortunately your ugly car lives to see another day’. A flurry of motorbike emojis and question marks follows.

Beth belly laughs. She replies with her thanks, and another offer to pay for Annie’s Uber.

There’s no response to that.

The _moment_ the minute displayed moves from 39 to 40, Rio’s car materialises. It’s ridiculous. Beth understands being _early_ , of course she does. But this precision appearance nonsense of his is eerie. Practically offensive. He must be hiding round corners. Or. _Well_.

*

Beth peeks at the – analogue, and really _what_ century is this thing built for? – clock on the dash. It confirms she’s been confined to this environmental torture for little more than twenty minutes.

On the one hand, that sounds about right. She’s been to Night Cap before of course (and truly do _not_ get her started on what a preposterous name that is for a bar all by itself, even without the idiotic logo), this route is not unfamiliar.

It feels like it’s been far longer, however. That point she extracted their destination from Rio could have been literal aeons ago.

Some minutes she’s feared will _never_ tick over to the next – they seem composed of far greater quantity of seconds than the usual – as she corner-eyes the clock up top of her phone’s screen. She’s mostly been swipe-cycling through three news apps, and the two main messaging ones, with enforcedly languid rapidness.

Right now she happens to be dealing with a dearth of messages. No one seems to be having a helpful crisis. She’s kinda tempted to prod Annie again, just to get some distraction happening. But, god, she’ll ask about what’s going on and. Hmm.

Beth’s _almost_ certain Rio can’t see her screen. But _still_. Best not to overdo it. Especially with such a mass of reflective surface about. So she tucks her phone away. And tries – again – to get comfortable in her seat. That’s of as paltry use as predicted. Not only because of her annoying companion in too-close proximity. Although his enjoyment of it, buried as he might be pretending to keep it, is undoubtedly the most repugnant part of the proceedings. It’s–

God, she _hates_ being in his car. At least the first couple of times his idiotic highness demanded her presence in this ludicrous status symbol, Beth’d been deeply distracted. By the, whatever, all-encompassing terror for her life. Not much focused on the position of her neck, too tense to care how her posture angled.

By the era where things had relented, reoriented to stabler ground, Beth hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask how to – access comfort. Poked and punched under and around the seat for levers or buttons. To no avail.

She _knows_ Rio clocks it each time. Enjoys having one up on her. But she will not give him the satisfaction of asking.

Not after the gleeful way he waited till she was just about out of her mind riding him in this very seat to tilt it all the way back – when she obviously hadn’t been able to pay attention to methodology and– Right. Never mind any of that. It’s certainly not _relevant_.

The worrying feeling that she’s cutting off her shoulders to spite his stupid face, that can just _fuck_ off too. Because, really. What’s one more uncomfortable thing about being in his goddamn presence to add to the list.

She doesn’t even know _why_ he insisted on picking her up for this. Or – or maybe she suspects. But _honestly_ if she’s right, he’s being a giant baby. So she was a whopping seven minutes late last time – because of a traffic accident. One which, despite his ‘hilarious’ comments, she did not cause. Does he actually think himself mystically exempt from such occurrences? Can this thing...transform? _Fly_?

Beth wiggles, pointlessly, in her seat. Tries to – not see him. God she _hates_ – This. Or. Fuck. Maybe she doesn’t. And that’s worse.

Things’ll settle, she’s sure.

This extended period of filmy neutrality to their dealings – where neither’s done anything especially ire-inciting to the other of late – should be pleasing, maybe. Instead it tempts her to stare at sky, trying to spy the next dropping shoe before it knocks her out.

At least the – the other stuff. Is done with. Truly, this time. A mere few weeks of summer madness. Clouding nothing, any longer.

Though that twitching torsion – it won’t entirely evaporate. Boy, she wishes it could.

It _was_ faintly comical, the final encounter, how the two of them sprung apart in horror when that post-coital glow took an almost _s_ _n_ _uggly_ turn, their almost-kiss smashing them apart. Like they couldn’t struggle into their clothes fast enough. Beth’d almost bolted, before remembering it was _her_ house, and it’d be far, far weirder to leave him there.

Neither of them said it _that_ time. In fact they’d said nothing. There’d been no need. The finality was obvious. Her headshaking. His wild eyes.

It’s – a little soothing, maybe. That he’s. The same, presumably. Sworn off trusting, understands they’d break it apart once more. Is not beckoning in that hurt.

The declaration – some variation of _this isn’t happening again_ – had been their small ritual. It’s better, she’d discerned, to be the person stating it outright, not the one limping their echo.

Though the – right, not the _first_ time, obviously. But – first beyond a long while. After it hadn’t seemed like it could or should happen ever again, for a good ol’ _chunk_. Well, maybe neither of them had vocalised anything to the effect then either. Beth can barely remember the aftermath. Or even the details of – during. It’s – hazed. Beyond an overbearing _intensity_. Need. Desperation. Force.

Her crossed thighs tense together, pelvis rocking subtly. And she – searches for a distraction from the heat building at this accidental tour through their worst hits. Beth begins cataloguing her physical complaints. The pinky toe of her left foot pinches a bit in these shoes. When she wiggles it she’s sure she can sense a callus forming deeper on the other side too. The _ache_ between her shoulders. How her butt’s lodged strangely. The stirrings of hunger, maybe the beginning of a migraine. Great.

They pass a spate of billboards for some fast food place – she doesn’t catch the name – in quick succession. The glossy fries, chicken, burgers, look _real_ appealing right now. Her belly grumbles.

She doesn’t even _say_ anything. Might accompany her – private – ogling with a faint moan.

Rio snorts. “Seriously?”

Before she even gets the chance to point out that he’s cutting at civilised dinner hour, he starts harping on. _Lecturing_. Blah blah blah that stuff’s no good for you, blather blather empty calories. It’s hard to tune out his droning.

  
“You done?” she snips, clearly interrupting.

He looks a touch taken aback.

And she is – not going to worry about being polite to someone who demands her presence, enforces couriering upon her.

“You’re no fun,” she continues.

He turns a stupid pout her way.

Beth rolls her eyes. “I’m hungry.”

“You didn’t eat already?”

“What? I’m not eighty-five,” snaps out. It is, she’ll grant, perhaps a little harsh. But her schedule’s whacked up and down by the revolving kidded-kidless-kidded weeks, which she’s still not quite settled to.

“Probably snacks in the…” Rio points at what seems to be a glorified cup holder.

Beth reaches in gleefully, appeased. Extracts a carefully resealed packet of–

“Sunflower seeds?!” she yelps, after trailing her hand every which way round there for anything else, even a literal crumb.

“Mm.”

“I’m not a _bird_.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, so Beth shakes the packet emphatically. “This isn’t dinner.”

God, is this why he’s often so cranky, and _stupid_? He does have the mood swings of an office gal on a succession of fad diets, now she thinks about it.

She’s hungry and irritated enough to rip into the pack though. Apparently with more force than Rio deems necessary.

He fixes her with a glare. “Don’t make a mess, yeah?” It’s in far too bossy a tone.

Beth’s treated to a brief but delighting fantasy of swirling the packet around the air, till it’s entirely empty, the seeds carpeting the interior – slipping inside all manner of crannies. She cannot get herself to believe it’d be worth it ultimately; that acknowledgement pulls her from the pleasure. Rio’d probably demand she tidy it – likely, what, insist she uproot each individual seed with her teeth, or something equally insane. She’d no doubt enjoy asphyxiating him in response (Beth’s almost certain she could manage it too, isn’t above playing dirty to lull if she must) but, god, she knows the hassles that come with attempting to dispose of a body so – no. It doesn’t garner genuine consideration, sadly.

Beth begins chewing her first handful. Or, well. She tries. It’s a laborious task. Offers little reward. The pieces stick to her teeth. The next round goes even worse – a couple of seeds drop, and she has to fish them from her cleavage.

After a while she cannot stand further. Practically demands gum as she neatens the insult away.

Rio waves to the glove compartment, so she pries it open. Not so much with tentativeness as…suspicion.

There’s a whole three items in there – perfectly equally spaced. An unopened packet of pumpkin seeds on one side, a single bullet on the other. Beth steers well clear of both, instead swoops up the spearmint pack deftly.

She feels a little weird about ripping it open; Ruby always says she does it wrong, like a bear seeking innards. Beth’s never entirely understood it, surely that’s _how_ you get at the pieces…? It’s nothing she normally goes self-conscious about, but Rio’s both so precise and odd that she’s always at most a half-step from expecting him to begin speaking in military time or tongues. She’s not eager to get him started on either.

So she tries to tear the plastic as little as possible. Is soon enjoying the minty flavour as the bolus clears cursed seed fragments away.

Beth contemplates the pack still in her hand, a bit perturbed by the task of placing it back in _exact_ centre position.

But then Rio elbows the compartment closed with no warning. Beth jolts at the noise. Suddenly, worse, his hand’s enveloping hers – the intrusive warmth of his skin another shock – as he snags the pack of gum from her to shove in a pocket.

When both of his hands are back on the wheel, directly in her newfound line of vision, and her heart rate’s calmed back down, Beth hunts – dissipation.

“I don’t see why I have to come along.” Her voice hauls all her bitterness, helianthus-fattened, into it. Though now she’s almost out and about, a little dressed up too, Beth is beginning to see the merits of Annie’s argument. This does seem a modicum more interesting for a Friday night than faceplanting on the couch.

The dawning of a very annoying grin perks at the too-pretty petals of his mouth. “It was your idea.”

“ _Hardly_ ,” Beth scoffs, finding that familiar seethe. Perhaps this is not an avenue she should have opened.

He continues teasing her along the route.

God, it’s not like she suggested a move into party drugs!

He overheard Beth comforting a distraught Annie, because he’d sneaked up on her while she was on the phone like some kind of creepy weirdo. And, okay, she had been at the park to meet Rio to drop off some cash, sure, but he still could have _announced his damn presence_. When she’d hung up then turned to find him glaring at her – after her squeak – he asked a load of weird, accusatory questions Beth could barely make head or asshole of. Till she realised he thought she’d been organising some drug deal while waiting for him. Like she was the type of sloppy amateur who didn’t recognise her business not-quite-partner was an invasive freak with preternaturally good hearing.

She’d ended up spilling the story, or at least its highlights. Mostly in her defence, but also because she was all keyed up, kinda wanted to rant. About the sudden expulsion of several students from St. Anne’s (not ones that Ben ran with, as she’d _tried_ to emphasise to a spiralling Annie), for their part in a baffling-sounding drug ring involving MDMA sunk into cartons of apple juice.

He’d hmmed, started playing about on his phone. Which Beth’d assumed was a particularly impolite signal of how interesting he found her point about Annie, sorta hypocritically, having no patience at all for her ‘kids will be kids’ quasi-placation. But then Rio turned his screen to her – open on some browser she didn’t even recognise the name of – detailing a load of drug busts, from that very night.

The pictures were of adults. And there were several face tattoos. The article snippets she noted from the search results suggested they were...connected.

Rio didn’t look alarmed in the least. More predatory.

And, okay. It certainly hadn’t been her first thought, but. “Gap in the market, maybe?”

His noise had appeared – agreeable.

He’d seemed to find the idea of her having a molly guy a bit too amusing, however. Beth got defensive, and that only made him laugh more, but he’d said she could look into it, by the end, so she’d run with it. When she and the girls inquired with Darren, he’d confirmed it – that he was struggling to meet E demand, supplies all over town having suddenly dried up.

But the concept of mixing – and moving – the stuff in the BBQ sauces, well, that’d basically been a _joke_. Trust Rio to actually listen to her the few times she didn’t mean him to.

Suddenly the undertaking had flipped way beyond what she felt comfortable with. Piecing the fragments together, Beth had gleaned he had some Canadian contact with ecstasy supplies, another on the bottling side. More importantly, the plan was to run the stuff via _her_ shop. Which, just – moving the cash through there was one thing. Hell, that was its whole _point_. But pouring drugs along the money’s roost, the sequel? That had to just be _stupid_. Increased the chances of getting caught, surely. Rio might as well have looked her in the eyes and told her he didn’t care _what_ risks fell on her. Crisp and stark.

And – yeah, okay. Maybe it is technically in Dean’s name. But despite their extrications, he remains the father of her children. It matters to Beth that he’s not ruined.

“It’s a trial,” Rio parrots at her _again_ , like that’s meaningful, as they pull up outside.

He doesn’t turn the engine off though, and she wonders if he’s actually committed to some type of cartoonish viillainy – like he can’t waste an opportunity to opulently, well, _waste_.

But then he’s fiddling with something by his door, and suddenly her headrest pops back.

Beth yelps. By the time she’s re-focused, he’s already scrambling out the car, telling her to hurry up cos they don’t wanna be late.

He hustles her into a booth before clambering on in – blessedly not particularly close. So at least Rio’s adhering to _that_ part of the…survival basics. It’s relieving, in the wake of the unpleasant ride over.

Reassurance in itself, however, is a giant crimson flag. A reminder all of its own that she may not trust him. She’s assumed a synchronicity to their distancing. Surely it is a fool’s errand to ascribe logic to his actions though. Rio’s perfected playing the shooting victim card too well, like butter’ll forever stay solid in his presence. As if each time she stocked up some small reserve of reliance, he didn’t find a way to needlessly shatter it. Casting sensible preservation instincts as flagrant paranoia.

Beth relaxes a smidge when he waves to a member of staff, but instead of ordering drinks he asks for a couple of _chairs_. She’s tempted to interrupt, inquire after a bottle, but she just _knows_ she’ll have to endure exactly the type of bullshit lecture she’s in no mood for.

God. Going to a bar – even if it is, as she suspects, another of his, to not drink is downright absurd. And dragging her to partake in the experience, simply _cruel_.

The meeting with Glasses and Biceps – oh they have names, Beth could probably even fish those from her mind if she had to, though she has no particular inclination to do so – seems to go decently. But she’s tired, and _hungry_ , and very much in need of a drink; every time Rio speaks she craves pure ethanol. And – honestly? They’re _boring_. The pair speak in terse crypticisms, like _him_. But they’re also clearly unimaginative. Maybe mid-level after all. A bit too impressed by the idea, could never have leapt to such a basic level of creativity. They’re obviously out of touch with the whims of their market. The duo have the heads-down-and-continue-along attitude of – of regular _goons_.

Besides, Rio’s pissing her _right_ off. She’s reasonably convinced these two aren’t reading into the laborious lilt of his incessant ‘business partners’ terminology, or this continued insistence with ascribing the plan to her. But the taunt – plus layers of history and disagreement touched – yanks, as it rankles.

“What about freezing?” Biceps asks, and Beth’s so deep in her tunnel of annoyance that she barely realises it’s addressed to her.

She scrambles for something to say. “Well, it keeps things cold.” There, that feels – neutral enough.

Three stony faces tell there that was _not_ the right angle.

Panic clutches her Achilles tendons, making her feel _weak_. Identical to a dream, unable to run.

She masters it. Plasters on her best PTA-grin and forces a chuckle. It catches, their guests are soon grunting in harmony.

“Yes,” she says. “We’re looking into that.” (They’re not, far as Beth’s aware). “Maybe the drinks route too.” (Ditto.) “This is simply a trial run,” forms her natural conclusion.

She _thinks_ she witnesses a subtle nod from Rio.

It’s not long before they’re all performing a complex criss-cross of handshakes.

The two rise to head out. Beth offers them a civil wave.

She turns to face Rio, clearly at the worst possible moment. His crotch swims into her field of vision. She stares in consternation a beat too long before dragging her eyes up, catching that challenging cast. Beth flushes and glances away. Starts trying to pry herself up.

But Rio presses down on her shoulder, shakes his head once she’s looking. Mumbles, “One sec.”

So, fine. What _ever_. She idly watches as he walks the other two out. Let him – oh, hell. Ask them to fill in her performance review or conduct different, more secret, business or– Or whatever the cause of this other, perplexing handshake could be – Rio looking like he’s practically trying to _lever_ Glasses from the ground. Some macho pissing contest, presumably.

Beth’s eyes drop to the menu, her stomach – heart too – lighting. While she struggles to decide what she might want to eat – glaring offended at the sliders section, forever confused as to the appeal of tiny burgers – she commits to the concept of dining here. She doesn’t need Rio to drop her home after all, can utilise one of her cab apps perfectly well.

So she takes the time to open the unnecessarily sparkly drinks list for perusal also. However, _that_ is discarded fast. She’d forgotten about the stupid names. Beth is quite certain she has no interest in any kind of smartini, or a cold fashioned, or whatever the heck a womanhattan is supposed to be.

Rio pops back up while she’s still mulling the eclectic selection of available dishes. He unloads his arms, plopping drinks down on the table – a _proper_ beverage each, as well as a giant pitcher of water with another pair of glasses. He appears awfully smug, is possibly even whistling under his breath, acting like he’s done the most impressive thing in the world. And, okay, it’s not something Beth’s super familiar with, anyone fetching her a drink, technically unprompted. Just – it’s hard enough to get Annie to go grab a round even when Beth’s offering to bankroll, her sister constantly citing teeny hands; claiming to be too short to be seen. But really, he needs to calm down, it’s nothing that special.

Beth dutifully pours herself a glass of water, though the pitcher’s an unnecessary type of unwieldy. She’s sure he’ll launch into a yawnable diatribe about hydration if she doesn’t act fast.

It turns out to be pretty nice being sprawled in the booth, once her hand is filled with a bourbon and her attention boasts fewer demands upon it. She’s certainly never sneered at sitting by the bar, in any establishment, given the proximity to the booze. But Beth kinda hates the tall chairs. Often, especially in flats, her feet won’t comfortably sit at the rung below. And they’re not always designed for someone with her _assets_ tipping forward attempting to lean oneself comfortable. The ones here are especially egregious.

She mentioned it once (foolish, foolish). Or, well. Rio’d overheard her muttering to herself about it after a few too many doubles, which amounted to the same thing. The next time she met him at one of his bars – a downtown location they’ve frequented with greater regularity – he’d made a big show of ushering her into a preposterously tall monstrosity which she could barely climb unaided. At first she assumed he’d replaced _all_ of the stools with the same – just to annoy her presumably, or maybe to deter women from cluttering up the place. But once she’d dealt with clambering up and paused to look around, Beth discovered there seemed to be just the single appalling throne he’d coaxed her into.

She’d had to literally jump off to escape; had been utterly unwilling to ask for assistance – obviously. The impact had jarred unpleasantly against the base of her left foot particularly. Thank _fuck_ she’d been in those ballerina pumps.

Loaded potato skins arrive suddenly. Beth immediately dives at them, as Rio nods. Melted cheese performs its mood-lifting sorcery, fast. She can’t help complaining that he didn’t let her order though, to start with this is in no way enough food!

Another plate of the same interrupts. Then more and more small dishes appear. Stuff she’s certain she didn’t see listed on the menu included. He digs in too.

She has to admit, to herself, this is a great smorgasbord. Preferable to any single item she might have plumped for. The mostly-quiet as they busy themselves with eating feels – if not companionable, then at least free from open hostility.

Beth finds herself wiggling her empty glass at him.

He raises a brow, scoping the sparkly menu near her. Once they’re locking eyes again, Rio suggests, “ _Cock_ tail?”

What a _dick_.

Beth shakes her head, decidedly unimpressed.

Why is he, _now_ – Or even, _what_ is he– It doesn’t make– Ugh. Perhaps there is no point at all to considering the rationale to someone so...erratic.

He grabs the glass from her, pulling at its base, where her fingers aren’t. That makes her _aware_ of the lack of contact, as if it’s being carefully avoided. The memory of him easily snaking the gum from her earlier – his hand warm on hers – re-sparks.

She sees him yacking it up with the supposed bartender. Why Rio suddenly becomes the chattiest person in the world when her drink is on the line, she does _not_ know.

Once he’s back, she gets maybe half a minute of sacrosanct uninterrupted drinking opportunity.

Beth’s just stuffed in a huge mouthful of the feta-filled salad, when he says: “You really hurt my feeling.”

She swings to eye him. Pulls a face at his blatantly over-exaggerated pout. She struggles to swallow down the food swiftly cos often when he says something sublimely preposterous, several more such statements follow in rapid succession, and she gets stuck struggling to decide which aspect of nonsense to respond to first.

He beats her though. “Said I’m no fun.” The pout has _worsened_ somehow.

She’s just working up to a real solid eyeroll, when he holds up a fist, quickly opening it to flash a baggie of bright crystals at her for a mere second, before closing his hand. He looks a raging kind of delighted.

“What?” she bites.

He nods agreeably.

So she tries a different tack; open-ended questions are patently not his forte. “Is – is trying out the merchandise a normal part of the process?”

The idea – particularly of him relaxing – sounds violently laughable. Her brain unhelpfully supplies flashes of post-orgasmic moments, but Beth’s certain that does _not_ count. He’s not special for working out that trick, please.

“Not personally,” he sniffs – shockingly competent at answering a specific query. “Avery shoved it in my hand. So.”

Ah. Avery. Yeah, that _was_ Glasses’ name. She knew that. Probably.

“You ever…?” His eyebrows wobble.

Beth hedges her bets. Lulls, “Maybe,” in a manner which, along with her smize and lash-fluttering, zags toward affirmation.

She has precisely zero inclination to explain to _him_ that sometimes, when you’re nineteen and desperate to pack as much fun as possible into a week, terrified you’ll never have the opportunity again, you aren’t necessarily asking many follow-up questions to the person pressing a pill in your hand.

Rio does not strike her as someone who would understand that. It’s far too easy to imagine a younger version of him listing, at minimum, fifty-five ‘sensible’ queries in a similar situation. Or wandering off to meticulously weigh out amounts on shiny, specially-purchased scales. God, he’s so _annoying_. In her mind this de-aged, yet still intensely judgemental, version is topped with owlish glasses and a floppy bow tie. Beth’s filled with the desire to choke out guffaws, to call him a giant fucking nerd to his face. It’s not a new experience. As usual though she bites it down, mostly concerned he’d take it as a compliment.

Beside the image loses its funniness, as it morphs from a lanky teenager to the _real_ him – all muscles and tattoos and naked confidence, now in nothing but spectacles and a diamond point and– Suddenly her mouth is very dry.

“Sooooo?” he croons, eyes darting to his hand, too blatant.

If he’s indeed suggesting what she thinks, it seems a truly horrible plan. She can’t imagine being anything close to ecstatic in his presence at the moment. Nor that that could have the capacity to end well.

But he’s the one offering this…conduit.

She’s reminded of Mick’s betrayed face, that tipsy night. When she and Rio had both been patting him on the back over something or other. Mick suddenly and obviously noting their fingers rubbing adjacent.

Well she’s never backing off any fucking gauntlet he throws down.

So she nods, it’s practically automatic. Follows Rio immediately to this unfamiliar backroom. _God_. The poor quality of the decision reverberates internally. She’s somehow forever questing to impress him. Yet often ends up hating it when she does.

He digs in his pockets. First rolling papers appear.

Beth narrows her eyes. “Do you just. Have those?”

“Nah, got ‘em off Charlie.”

“Who?”

“The bartender,” Rio sighs, looking slightly affronted. Like she’s supposed to be able to identify _every_ man in his possible employ, including those she suspects she’s never been introduced to.

Next a flask materialises, out his back pocket.

“Why do you have that?” she cannot help but ask.

“Yeah,” he agrees with, well, nothing.

“No,” Beth sighs. “ _Why_ do you have that? We’re at _your_ bar.”

He doesn’t dispute it, so she figures that’s practically concrete proof of something she’s long suspected yet lacked confirmation of.

“Well,” is all she gets verbally, but the complex shrug accompanying seems to strongly imply: _you never know_.

He grabs out a card of some sort, uses it to crush the contents of the bag, till that’s powder-ish. Beth eyes the implement, looking for identification, maybe. But the thing is mostly plain black, with the suggestion of an off-centre hologram. Membership for something, could be.

The powder is soon decanted onto the flask, which is lying flat atop the desk, the curve of it becoming an efficient little table. There’s further crushing, and then the scooping of powder into papers; achieving some kind of advanced origami.

A pair of those are set aside from the others when they get packed away.

“You don’t wanna try the juice thing?”

He frowns. “What even _is_ that?”

She opens her mouth to reply, but he cuts her off. “I don’t get the kids these days.” He hands her one of the – thingies.

Beth works to hold in a smile. Rio’s echoing Annie, and her ranting about classics being classics for a reason, once she’d calmed down from the whole debacle, a little _too_ hard.

“I told you my guy wants sixteen of the appley one, right?” Beth insists. Darren had seemed weirdly into the BBQ sauce gimmick.

“Yeah, yeah.” Rio’s smiling too indulgently, like the idea of her having a connect is still hilarious. But at least he’s not fussing.

“Made these two bit weaker,” he explains.

Beth nods clumsily, wondering if she was supposed to pay proper attention to the preceding proceedings. She’d gotten a bit mesmerised by the motions of his elegant fingers, the familiarity of those blunt nails and broad tips.

They cheers the tiny packages awkwardly, swallowing them down with the remnants of their drinks in sync.

And then they’re just standing there a little hesitant for a moment, alone in this private space, before they head on back to their booth.

Beth raises her empty glass at him, expectant.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Might wanna pace yourself though, yeah?”

“I’m a big girl.” Her tone sticks extra-sweet.

His eyes drag over her breasts before he smirks back at her face.

*

For a while it’s just – nothing much. They barely chat, remaining next to each other, both facing outward mostly. It’s kind of…peaceful. Not particularly like being out with Annie and Ruby. There’s no arguing about who needs to stay with the bags and coats while someone jets to the bathroom, or who grabbed the last lot of drinks. Beth is a _bsolutely_ not shelling out to buy her almost-boss a beverage. Certainly not in his own bar. If he wants to use her to line his pockets, he can get a shade more original.

It’s certainly not reminiscent of being on the town with Dean either. Nor those few awkward dates she’s been on, with the constant yammer.

She does feel a bit weird the first couple of times she excuses herself to go to the bathroom. It’s not that she’s concerned Rio’s going to follow her, of course not, but – knowing he might be thinking about _that_ flushes inside her and – _and_. Well. _What_ ever.

The third visit, Beth finds she apparently doesn’t need to pee, despite the sense that she did having inspired the journey. So she shrugs, giving up. Then after meticulously washing and drying her hands, she spends a little extra time fluffing her hair. She shimmies, smiling at her reflection. Maybe it’s just the lighting but she feels – and looks – great.

Not long after her return, Rio summarily announces, “Might wanna turn off your phone.”

Beth nibbles down the urge to tell him that sounds like classic kidnapper chat for – for reasons.

“Why is that?” She thinks it might come out shy of suitably severe. Her mouth seems to be moving, turning, without her permission.

One of his arms slings back along the edge of the booth. “Likely to develop a _deep_ need to text people how much you love ‘em.”

Beth snorts. God, if she did that to Ruby or Annie apropos of nothing they’d almost certainly assume she was in grave danger and signalling with coded comms.

“Do _not_ wanna be texting an ex that.” His eyes widen as he stares into space, assumedly speaking from experience.

The idea of sending Dean a message like that without fanfare is indeed nauseating.

“Or,” he adds, turning to look at her. “Hmm, your kids at 3am.”

“3am?!” That’s so far from her bedtime as to practically be an acceptable waking hour.

He gives her that prepare for anything shrug.

Beth gulps. Well, _fuck_ it, she decides. It does take her a moment to work out how to turn the damn thing off, this new model has a complicated relationship with the notion of power buttons, and she doesn’t entirely recall the precise sequence required to appease it. Eventually, she finds a route via the settings instead. That gives her enough time to think it all through. The kids are off with Dean – up at his family’s cabin, where the signal isn’t very good anyway. She had her daily chat with the four of them this morning when Dean headed into town, full brood in tow, for supplies (they truly do go through milk like nobody’s business). And. He can handle his own children for a night for heaven’s sake, has managed it the past five fine. Ruby and Annie – well they have each other, should anything come up. If there’s some crime fiasco, Rio’s dang well _here_. He can tell her about it himself!

Even if dropping from the grid intentionally without informing anyone first makes Beth feel a little guilty, it’s also slightly thrilling. Plus, Beth rationalises, shit _happens_. Cell phones get stolen or break or run out of charge every day. The world keeps turning. She can take a single night off from high alert, surely. And anyway – she’s not smashing it on the table and flinging it away. It can always get turned back on if – _when_ – she needs to arrange transport home, or whatever.

“Not turning yours off?” she asks, when he makes no similar moves.

“Please.” He sort of sniffs.

Beth hears something akin to _I’m a professional_ under his words. It irks her, though she’s not sure if the implication’s supposed to be about his importance or drug-taking expertise in comparison to hers.

Either way, it strikes her she’d usually be far less inclined to let it go, but she’s distracted by a rush of feeling truly _amazing_ , the muscles of her back relaxing as she almost gasps.

Beth runs with the instinct to lean close to tell him, “I think it’s. Yeah. Hello.”

The experience of her breath blowing his face is – exhilarating.

He says something, which she doesn’t catch. And she kind of wants to make him repeat it, but there’s also a surge to explain to him what she’s encountering (it seems important he understand, _because_ ), only it’s a little hard to get her mouth to do what she wants.

“You need gum,” he says forcefully.

The words penetrate, and she retreats, horrified. Beth huffs into her cupped palm, then tries to sniff the caught air. She can’t glean much beneath a whiff of sweat, but she’s not sure how her hand normally smells, so…? She attempts another go, really focusing, but then he’s yanking her wrist away.

Beth glares at him, piqued – or at least gives that her best go. But his pointer strokes over her ticking jaw and – oh, okay. She hadn’t noticed she was…doing that. The finger jogs round, encourages her teeth off her bottom lip.

When he holds the pack to her, Beth nips her face forth, bites a piece straight from it. It takes a while for that to seem odd – it was the quickest route after all, involved the least moving. That they’re still holding eye contact, unbroken, causes something to spike and spark in her gut. Were his eyes always so _large_ and, like, glossy and– All gets exponentially worse when Rio lifts the wrapper to his own mouth, basically repeats her action. His lips, teeth, whatever where hers just were. And he’s _staring_ at her, and.

Beth finds herself murmuring a melody she doesn’t recognise. The song’s playing, at least she thinks it is. The music’s too quiet, compared to the clinking of glass around, the pounding of her pulse filling her head. Her hums sound tremulous to her own ear – was her voice always this weak, her grasp to realism so fragile…?

“You okay?” His voice cuts through, it’s not exactly an intrusion.

“Um,” she says. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t look very impressed with her tone. Beth attempts to take stock, without falling too far into the void of her thoughts.

“I could use some air.”

He nods, gestures to the back.

That agreeability helps on its own, shifts some worry from her, like particles of dead skin visibly yielding their position in a shaft of sun-bright.

Walking is a distractingly fun challenge. The floor keeps looking like it might be capable of deviating under her, though to be fair it never does, the fluctuating play of shadows as people shift suggesting the same below.

For some reason, she’s the one leading the way. It doesn’t seem sensi– sens– _sensey_. But Beth kind of likes it.

She makes it through the area they were in before, all the way to what appears to be an exterior door, to stare at it in consternation. Rio’s making fiddling sounds behind her – there’s a drawer opening, some fumbling. What might be the press of something to a firm surface, maybe a key turning. She _should_ look – right? Check? He could be doing _anything_. But she kind of – doesn’t wanna. And then he’s _there_ , showing her the way to unpin the exit and – and it’s fine. Probably.

The brace of fresh, cool air is _wonderful_ as it plays upon her bare skin, becomes downed into her lungs. It helps to calm her concerns, though perhaps not as much as his strangely gentling presence, attendance. Worries had been flitting that perhaps they are not a pairing suited to vaguely hallucinatory, certainly mood-altering drugs together, entirely sans supervision. What with all the – death threats and actual violence, and wide array of betrayals. There are a lot of…thoughts and associations which surely wind toward bad trip territory. But their newfound plateau – short-lived as she assumes it must be – provides some grounding.

“You not cold?”

Beth looks down. She remembers shrugging out of her jacket some while ago, must have left it inside. She has a moment of panic, before finding her newish Coach purse on her arm. As it turns out, she’s not completely sure how to assess her current temperature accurately, is struggling to identify the bounds between the pleasant air and herself. But she’s suffused with peace, feels like she might need to dig back through her jazz collection again soon. Is certainly not _too_ anything, so she shakes her head.

That unrecognised melody from before strums out her still, or maybe it’s morphed. Her voice has found form. She sways gently.

Rio sparks a cigarette he produces from – somewhere.

“You don’t smoke!” she tells him, surprised. But then she wonders if she _does_ in fact know that, definitively.

He audibly agrees with her, which is pleasing, helps her not regret her kneejerk. Then he offers it to her, after a couple drags.

“ _I_ don’t smoke.”

Beth’s almost certain of the veracity of her last statement. He’s still holding the cigarette out to her though, like that fact bears little to no relevance.

So she takes it cautiously. Pulls a plume into her throat, exhales with delight. Chews a couple times on the now nearly tasteless gum she retrieves from its place cornered by her cheek, before puffing once more.

“Oh my gosh,” she gasps, passing it back to him, feeling that steadying brush of fingertips. “That is _good_.”

He mms his assent.

They exchange back and forth a while. She thinks she clocks him licking her transferred lipgloss off him at one point, but her eyes become distracted as she tips her head back to stare at the moon.

“It’s so beautiful,” Beth murmurs. Thinks she hears him concur.

By the time the butt’s ground underfoot, she feels ready to head back in. This time _she_ makes a big show of holding open the door for him, ushering him through. It sends them both toward giggles, their shoulders jostling. He’s ahead of her in making it back to their seat; Beth caught in the music. It remains too quiet compared to the surrounding competing noises of boring conversations and glassware, but this song she recognises – maybe it’s played on the radio a few times. Beth doesn’t know the words, not really, but the tune is familiar. She sort of shuffle-dances, shut-eyed, lost to the music, and how pleasant it is to motion her hips, to wind her arms, to loosen her neck.

When her lashes falter open, she finds Rio slumped back, hands on his thighs – very clearly watching her.

She smiles instinctively, and he mirrors it. Fast.

“I wanna dance,” she tells him. It doesn’t sound particularly defensive.

He nods or gestures his head at her, or maybe just stirs. “You are.”

“No but,” she leans to him so she can almost-whisper collusively, “no one else is.”

“Wanna go somewhere?”

“ _Where_?” It’s almost gasped out. She just – hadn’t really considered a change of location. This is familiar, non-terrifying territory. Beth knows the exits, the whereabouts of the bathrooms, how to extract more water if she needs (should Rio’s obsession with the stuff at some point flounder).

Trepidation – the gloomy shadow of freakout plausibility – tugs at her. But also… So does the possibility for adventure. And he’s – he’s in the same compromised headspace; weirdly _kind_. So–

“Somewhere, uh…” Rio gestures, his hands starting close to each other at first, then twitching apart. Till he’s thumbing in some direction. Like he’s invented a new sign language which she’s supposed to intuit. His fingers click. “Club?”

A _night_ club? That’s– Beth looks down at her outfit, uncertain. But when she pulls her head to glance at Rio again, he’s just leisurely nodding.

And then – somehow they’re quickly on the move. She grabs his sleeve at one point, certain they forgot to settle the tab, till he reminds her there wasn’t one. Then they’re snorting laughter, cheeks chubbing.

He leads her to – somewhere. It can’t be more than a couple of blocks, she thinks. The act of walking outside, along the uncluttered streets, it’s _fun_. Her steps bounce, though her heels and lack of completely formed sea legs keep her pace slow. Rio ambles pretty much at her clip, his body lax and loose in a way she’s rarely seen.

He looks so pretty in this light, it’s unreal. And Beth wants to tell him, but she’s certain she’s not supposed to, though she doesn’t remember why. The secret burns hot in her belly, attempting to rise.

They cut past the line – or rather Rio does, and she follows him up to the velvet rope. Maybe he flashes something to the bouncer, she’s not sure, but the guy lets them through immediately, posture a little deferential. She finds herself wondering, for about the millionth time whilst gazing at some part of Rio, exactly _who_ he is…

It’s big inside, that’s her first major impression – beyond the lights and the loud and the crush and the heat. Her head tips up up up, before around again. Perhaps this was once a theatre, or a concert venue?

They snake to the bar against the back wall. She’s not sure if one of them is leading the other or if they started striding that way in tandem.

Rio sort of props her under his armpit as they wait, in a way she is near-convinced she would normally find disturbing. Especially with the blurred, fractured glimpses she catches of them in the mirrored glass behind the bottles amid the dim lighting. But she pushes a little closer, rolls her shoulder into his solidity.

She’s – she’s suddenly experiencing the urge to touch him in. New ways. Maybe to shrug her arm around his waist. Or, god, stick a hand in his back pocket like she’s a character in a cheesy movie. But. She can pinch down on it easy enough, she’s sure. Is perceptive, knowledgeable, enough to understand the cause. Beside, it’s not like they took a _huge_ dose, right. It’ll wear off soon.

She can dance and sweat and drink it out, then head off home. No harm, no foul. And if they allow themselves some light touching and flirting or, god, even cheat a kiss or two… Whatever. It’s pretty obvious what they can chalk that to. And anyway, she’s feeling fairly in control, all things considered. Her head is _on_.

She must not have been paying attention while Rio was ordering the drinks, because when she looks at the bartop once the woman’s taken the payment and wandered off to to serve another customer, there’s a large glass of water and a single tumbler of what looks to be a whiskey and coke. Rio’s _not_ complaining…

Worse, he encourages the glass of water into her hand as he takes what she wants, before turning and wandering off.

Beth is very close to yelling after him. She takes a sip of water since it’s there, finds it strangely enchanting. Remembers his obsession with hydration… Reasons he’s gonna want part of _this_ , so surely she gets to take some of _that_.

When they’re standing side by side, not too far from the edge of the dance floor, watching the hypnotic sway of neon-tinged bodies, he turns to her.

“Top up?” is suggested, with a wink.

“ _Yes_.”

Rio shoves the other drink in her hand, and she is _delighted_ and _vindicated_ , surfing on the sensation she’s grasped all of human emotion and manipulation tactics as she swigs the sweet stuff. Then he presses one of the paper wrapped drug um… Bombs! (Beth remembers suddenly, the fragment, from a conversation with Ruby and Stan at least a decade and a half ago, abruptly springing at her) to her mouth, his fingers staying pressed to her lips a moment before traipsing down, past her chin, along her throat, tracing the journey as she swallows.

He takes the water from her, and Beth watches him feed himself the same, itches to rub similarly over the fascinating protuberance. Those avian lines.

And then somehow one of them has led the other, or maybe they both just knew to move, because they’re among the press of bodies, far from that back bar. He slips between people easily, or perhaps simply has little compunction over prodding them out of his way. Beth finds it harder work shoving her shape through the crowd. It collectively reeks somewhat of sharp perfumes and muted farts, but that doesn’t bother her as much as it would on the average evening. It’s easier for irritants to melt from notice.

Beth’s vision is drawn to the wall, by the brightly coloured paintwork made of the moulding and possibly original statuary, practically blinding against the dark. It makes her _laugh_ , it’s so tacky.

Seeing him dance should be weird. And, well, maybe it is. But she doesn’t really look _at_ him as they move sort of near each other but not actually together, so. Unreality paints the whole experience, anyway. There’s a small, objective, part of her mind trying to tell her something. It sounds quite like the one in her dreams which imparts the knowledge _th_ _at_ _isn’t real_ , _this isn’t happening_ , _it came out different in the end_. But it’s locked to a pretty deep recess.

Soon she’s impelled to swing her purse to the floor, mimicking many others around her. History tells her it must be _grimy_ down there but – but it weights her and she longs to have her arms and range of motion free and it’s hard to care about future problems right now and everyone else is doing it and a largely foreign faith is running through her, _so_.

Once that mass is off her, Beth becomes fully aware of a particularly bright white spotlight which keeps swinging around, stinging her pupils. Interrupting her dance joy. She bends and fumbles to get her sunglasses from the case in her purse, but Rio follows her down. Possibly with a modicum of concern at first, only then he’s laughing and pushing the case closed, the Coach’s zipper definitively fastened over it. He leans above her ear, insists that’s a _douche_ move.

Beth pouts as she unfurls. The lights are generally streaming in a _cool_ way, kinda how street lamps do for her when she’s tired and without her glasses – something she only learnt to ascribe to her astigmatism, discovered wasn’t common to all, in more recent years. But the big one shocks her, blares into her at each revolution. She can’t find how to possibly explain that right.

“The big one is bad,” she frowns, pointing.

“So don’t look at it.”

Her foot stomps.

He pulls at her accusing hand. “Look at me.”

Beth does _try_ to keep her eyes on his looming face instead, but: “Your head’s not _that_ big.”

He laughs, and then she does but she’s not sure it’s as funny as all that.

Soon her eyes are half-shut, she remembers now, that’s the way to deal with it! She’s found the beat, riding it entranced. Her hands run delicately over her body, enjoying the sensation of the lace falling over her lower half, the silkier feel of the bodice and short sleeves. The firms and softs of her frame below. The songs seem to have barely more than a single lyric, but she kinda likes that, the ease of gripping on to it, knowing what words to expect as the rhythm winds and wobbles to interesting new places.

That smoulder builds familiar at her centre, makes her _aware_ of her hips, all the points they encompass.

She cannot avoid the pull; Rio’s warm presence a pole. They both must move closer and closer and – and she turns, twirls again, like she has been and and and–

Well then she’s kind of. Arching back. On to him. _In_ to him. Rising on her heels. Because he’s sultry and solid and gratifying. His hands are nothing but assured when they find her waist; his chin a comfort at her shoulder. Her ass cannot help but rub, and she thinks he might be _groaning_ low, the mere _thought_ makes her whimper, so she turns and then. _Then_.

Then she can’t _stop_ touching. With her hands, yes – those roam him. His sides, over his back. But it’s the rest of her too, her body caught in the purgatory of the beat, because his is too and they’re churning together though his face is far, haloed by the effervescent glow, so she tugs it closer, just to see it better, and she’s sure there’s a reason not to but she swears she doesn’t know it so she kisses him, and he doesn’t hesitate, not for a mere slice of a millisecond, and it’s invigorating and relieving and perfect, how his hands squeeze over her shoulder and at her rear, the way his tongue tangles with hers, feeling his heft crash against her, propelling her – them – till she’s crushed to the wall, four hands desperate, their lips slipping and _bidding_ and–

When she breaks away, her head rolls first up, then she glances down, glad to see her purse somehow got kicked along with them. And she just – dives back in, and dives back _in_ , and she doesn’t think at all. Commits to nothing beyond what feels right.

Maybe – maybe she’s the one who nudges them, initiates the move to that alcove, replete with bench seat. Or. Or maybe their minds have climbed well aboard the same wavelength. Are travelling along an identical pulsing current of lights, with their bodies joined, sweat-slick and close-stuck.

She knows she’s the one shoving him down to the seat though. That’s _fun_. The way he whooshes to a spot below her. How she can finally drop her neck.

When she’s clambering astride – which is complicated work, though the sturdy weight of her purse placed next to him is a boon – Rio’s _no_ help. He just stares. But once she’s on, over, his lap, he’s immediately grabbing. Doing something that could perhaps charitably be described as steadying.

One of his hands clamps at her ass, over the lace of her dress, as her hips roll and roll and roll. And she can’t – she cannot stop pawing him. Her hand firms at his shoulder, before rolling gentle over his chest. It’s not _rushed_. This might be the first time she’s ever been granted the opportunity without some type of at least implied deadline. So she savours: how she hasn’t, not in those snatched moments – that he had to know too could not long last. The stroke of her finger-side over his cheek. Lipping along his neck. The compression his body enacts against her breasts.

But in the slow grind, while she’s gnawing a bit at his collarbone, a couple of buttons already shoved asunder, Beth has to contemplate the – the _effect_ on her. She notes that he’s barely half-hard, starts to worry he’s not as into it as she.

Attempting to pull away, uncertain, affords her a glimpse of his fluttering open eyes. The wide-blow of them, that’s probably the drug, sure, but it’s his _expression_. Lost and pleased and like he might snap if she stops. And his _hands_. How they tighten; the one splayed over her spine nudging her back in. God, his mouth too, as it drops to her jaw, nibbling light, then down, down – suckling heavier.

So Beth just. Gives herself to the simultaneous intense awareness of every inch of her body along with how lost she is from it to the negative space around her. Assures herself, as she presses an accidentally sloppy kiss to the bridge of his nose and Rio smiles, that he’s feeling that too – sped _and_ lagged. Sharpened while blurred.

A tremulous hand rolls at his lower back, along his waist. She’s pleased to find no telltale bulge, sense no cold. Loses herself in the chance to take their time. Fondles, is paid in kind. _Relishes_.

He grinds her gradually, fevers her skin, licking over what he can reach.

Eventually, Beth begins confiding, somewhat conversationally, “My, um.” Her voice drops for the next word, “ _Panties_ feel very. Wet.”

He doesn’t miss a _beat_. “Yeah, how’s your pussy.”

Beth’s laughter tickles out of her, and his eyes seem to light. “ _Yeah_.” She squirms, tries to – describe. “ _Silky_ wet. Um. Warm. And.” Her pulse throbs deep in her cunt as she bears down harsh against his thigh, making her clench. “And empty.”

“Yeah?”

Beth nods. Emphatically.

“Maybe should do something about that.”

The movements of her head become slower, more deliberate. One of Rio’s hands finds its way under the skirt of her dress, to her ass. Cupping. Beth inhales acutely.

Soon his fingers are pressing her cheeks apart, fiddling some against the string of her thong. It makes her aware of exactly how much she’s _dripping_ , her slick has spread everywhere, back there too.

His central finger roams, slides deep into her cunt from behind, as he keeps her ass spread – not pushing _there_ really, more teasing with the stretch. Rio’s other hand gropes down the front of her body, soon slides over her underwear. Nudges the material aside to thumb at her clit. He alternates between barely there swipes and frantic rubs.

Beth spasms against his hands, feeling orgasmic practically from the get-go. It’s as if he’s pushing against the exposed root of her. She’s not sure if she’s had this thought before, it sounds familiar; he’s reminding her almost too much of her own touch there as the ridges and whorls of his print seem to indent against her hood.

That finger carries on fucking in and out of her. When it’s rubbing against the bumpiest most hidden deep sea-est part of her, it’s more than she thinks she can take – her head first tips back, then smacks onto him. The tension trills and careens within, till she’s almost not certain she ever wants it to crack apart. The journey a rapturous destination all of its own.

Drowning in the bliss-abyss, she's unsure if it's a single drawn-out orgasm, or tens of brief ones. She's convinced the answer isn't important. (Assured of scarcely anything else.)

Afterward, when Rio’s soothing a hand over her face, tonguing the delicate skin under her eyes, rocking smooth toward her, Beth registers that he’s _gravely_ hard, and she – yeah. If she thanks a higher power that she typically doesn’t believe in, any spiritual awakening that she may or may not be having is entirely her own business.

She breathes against him, eyes shut. “I need you to fuck me.”

“Right here?” His words make her fall a little further back into her own body. “Front of all these people?”

Well she – she _thinks_ they’re secluded. And that she’s still pretty covered… God, _is_ her backside covered? She wiggles, trying to assess. Her attention’s filled with what’s in front of it, all else dissolves to background. Could anyone see what they were doing cos– An abrupt shard of heat, lacking the expected flush of embarrassment, kindles at _that_ idea. Of people, strangers, anyone, seeing them together, knowing, merely suspecting even, what they’ve been up to. (Not aware of the horrors they’ve loosed on each other, who they’ve been; thinking them normal people – decently matched, even.)

But his grin is too lazy, when she looks. And she thinks he’s joking, probably, this private cryptic uptight weirdo. She offers a teeny headshake, one not so definitive it couldn’t be talked…elsewhere.

Adds, “Not sure I can walk.”

His head tips back as he cackles enough for an entire coven.

She can’t turn down the invitation to nip at his throat, then suck a little lower.

Eventually they stumble up, Beth weighed with her Coach once more.

They keep forgetting where they’re going. Or, she does. Or the fact that he’s leading them somewhere, that’s what gets lost. It’s not like he complains when she pushes him against wall or, once they’re capering up stairs, bannister. Hell, he gives at least as good as he gets. Traps her hips _plenty_ as they trip about.

Beth’s typically found obvious PDA of this sort a little…grim. Overly performative. Attention-grabbing. _Noisy_. If she was witnessing a pair acting like the two of them in a bar, it’d likely send her nose in the air. (Possibly a shot of envy to her abdomen too.) But. But maybe she gets it. A bit.

He pulls her to a bathroom. Seems to know the lay of the land suspiciously well. Does he own this place too, she wonders. Invest in it, maybe. Or has he simply been here enough times, brought enough g– She doesn’t care, doesn’t care, _doesn’t care_. Not when he’s got her pressed to the inside of the door, rubbing against her just so, mouthing at her breast over her dress and, ahhh. _Jesus_.

When he breaks away, Beth gripes. Is mildly mollified to see he’s eyeing the identical – blessedly deserted – pair of stalls.

She jerks her shoulder, aware of discomfort suddenly, he instinctively shoves her in response – hips at hers, palm clamping over her clavicle – pinning her against the door, without even looking. So she pinches the back of his hand, hard.

He hisses, but turns for her. She looks at him, triumphant, before jiggling sideways from his now-slack grip. To show him what she was pressed almost painfully against. Once the lock’s clicked into place, she pushes him entirely off her. He goes easy.

Rio certainly seems to enjoy her sashay; Beth clocks it in the mirror, which takes up the majority of that wall, as she moves toward it. He follows at a distance, chuckling something about old times.

Beth glares at his reflection as she throws her purse to counter, but it doesn’t stick.

She’s tempted to turn around, leap up on the slightly too-high surface, just to – to not be predictable. But, _fuck_ , she really, really wants to _see_. And anyway, he’s pressed behind her, helpfully hastening up her dress.

So Beth kicks her thong down to her ankles as he – he must nudge out of clothing because soon his cock is _rubbing_. Over and at her folds. Her cunt involuntarily clutches at itself; she tries to flare the rim of her _wide_ through sheer force of will.

The positional endeavour seems a tad pointless, given it’s functionally impossible for her to keep her eyes open but. It. Just. Feels. So _good_. His hand smooths up her bare thigh as he pushes inside, thumb stroking over and over the bristling skin at the jutting point of her hipbone. It's a familiar stretch, in some ways. But she's used to more calculated prep. The kind which allows sudden haste.

His breath muddles at her neck, ear, throat, as Rio rides her back onto him. She thinks she hears him say something about the moon through the stomping chant of her blood, her body thrilling and gorging on being so _filled_.

It’s _slow_ , the rhythmic ricochet of his cock fucking into her. Forcing her to luxuriate there. Her frame strains. _Bows_. Fingers scrabble against the cold – metal or marble or whatever it is she’s gripping.

Beth’s face reaches _up_ , like a honeysuckle seeking sunlight, as her centrality pulses and clutches at her rear. Desperately searching for the more he’s holding from her.

When her eyelids crack, she finds he’s staring down, entranced, at the place he’s pressing into her. It almost looks like a _sneer_. She clenches, hard. His eyes raise, catch hers.

Then, suddenly, his thumb’s pressing between her cheeks, digging in at her hole. Beth makes a strangled noise. His reflected face is assured and intensely unapologetic and–

“That’s. New,” she chokes out.

“Uh huh.”

It’s. She wriggles. Trying to find the extra level of stimulation she needs. He’s grinning. God. She hates his stupid face.

“More,” she grits.

And then it’s just. Sensations. Sensation _al_. Euphoria saturates. Promises perfection. Dims concerns.

Beth’s _limp_ by the time he comes in her. Slumped forward, her breast pushing awkwardly at faucet.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she expels, again. It’s not exactly a waste of breath, does seem important to say, but she wishes she could force more into the syllable. To _explain_. That was.

He groans in apparent agreement.

She tries to squirm. He’s _heavy_.

Rio seems to take the hint. Pushes off, and out, of her. She watches him sort of recover, the parts in her narrow frame of vision anyway. It’s kind of fascinating.

As he’s washing up, he suggests with a truly fiendish face, “Top up?”

“ _Fuck_.” Beth doesn’t feel up to much moving quite yet, but she rolls her neck so she can catch him better. “Yeah.”

She does _try_ to lean herself up. Settles mostly for angling her hand out to accept the offering.

But something goes wrong this time, she misjudges her swallow, the paper seems to rip and its insides taste _foul_.

She gags it down somehow, desperate to get to the part where she can complain. Finds the energy to swivel the faucet so she can glug water from it.

Rio sticks two fingers deep into her, with no warning. Beth yelps at the unexpected intrusion, but as it turns to an appreciative moan he’s already withdrawing. When she glances up, his fingers are hovering near her chin.

  
“What?” he says, brow popped.

As she goes to answer, he shoves the fingers in her mouth.

She pulls a face. It deepens when he laughs, “Taste better, yeah?”

Beth maintains the glare. Though she does. Suck. Lick. Fastidiously.

“I think we should. Leave,” she announces, once she’s knocked his wrist away. Her eyes cant to the door again.

“Mm, where you wanna go?”

His eyes _trail_ as she gathers her underwear back up her legs, adjusts the dress.

Beth’s breath falters. She catches his expression. Maybe it’s. Maybe it’s okay to say. “Somewhere with a bed.”

His voice is soft. “’Kay.”

Once they’re outside, Beth beelines for the car. Her hand is _almost_ on the – pleasingly shiny – door handle, when Rio guides her off course. Points out it’s neither of theirs. And – oh yeah. Beth giggles, remembering how he hadn’t let her drive, that his car’s still at the bar, why neither of them should be allowed to pilot right now.

“You want anything?” he asks, post-steer.

“Huh?” Her attention lifts hazily.

She discovers they’re outside a late-night convenience store. Her mind races. “Carrot sticks!”

“Okay,” he chuckles. “Let’s have a look.”

“What do you want,” she thinks to inquire as they enter. Nods seriously for each item – a fresh lighter, more cigarettes, those chewy mints, gummy worms – so she can help search. In case he forgets. Just – because.

Her head seems like it’s full of secret sounds. Ones that don’t quite make words, more pleasant than the hum of florescence or the beep of traffic. They shiver and whoosh beneath her skin, voiceless fricatives grooving.

It’s a fuzzed-fogging type of _fun_ as they share a cigarette, waiting for the……….. Oh, car! Right. They walked a little further – a cross-street seemed important if they were summoning a vehicle to find them. She wants to giggle every time she catches Rio’s eye, which is frequent, and she kind of wants to _run_. Not to or from, just to feel the burn and stretch of her legs, and–

*

When Beth wakes, in that honeying light, the first thing her vision snags on is a framed poster. It’s hard to note its details with the way the sun glints from the glass, but something about the faded blue and red, that thick font, make her think it’s for a movie, or a play maybe… As she squints, she finds herself tumbling to the moment. Reality. Her _aches_.

That fucked out feeling is hard to ignore. Her thighs hurt from use. It’s not unpleasant. She tilts to her right, has to stifle a gulp. Rio’s lying on his front, very next to her, only just not touching, drooling onto a pillow. Extremely naked.

She’s – she looks down. Well, she appears to be no better in the clothing department. Her hands are clutching an identical pouffy pillow, body literally flat on its back.

Her side – or well, the side of the bed she is on – is flush with the wall. So she scoots carefully down the bed, intent on _not_ waking him. She has to execute a complex lean to get around the duvet pushed to the bottom of the bed, part-covering his ankles.

Gotta go, gotta go, get the hell out of here, her brain shrieks, on repeat.

There’s an interconnected strewn pile of clothing on the floor, round the corner of the bed closest to his left foot. Beth attempts to _silently_ grapple with it. But what she yanks apart are his jeans and the shirt she still reckons sports an excessive quantity of buttons. One oversized sock. A pair of briefs. Nothing _hers_.

Under the bed she spies one of her shoes. It’s a start, though also a conundrum.

As she rises from her crouch, her eyes are drawn to the gap between the bed and a short chest of drawers. It’s an odd configuration for furniture she feels, sagging distant rather than close.

En route she has to step around two condom wrappers. Closer up, her fuzzed vision spies a tied off, clearly used, prophylactic poorly nestled in a kleenex topping the item of furniture, next to a quartet of rings. The sight is – sort of soothing in its way. But it also brings back memories of _earlier_ than, in that bathroom, the pair of them vibrating with desire, Rio coming _deep_ inside her, distinctly bare. Plus his fingers in her after as some kind of… Filthy joke mixed with dubiously practical help.

And – and. It of course sparks a recollection from far earlier too. Of before the clearly untrustable stability of _no more_ , pre-dating them skittering sensibly apart; that, she’d assumed shared, fear of entangling further because of the inevitability of carving more pain into themselves. Prior to their brief, contraception-tinged, new abnormal. (The reverberations of one little pregnancy lie no doubt echoing, striking, a long stint.) From that – well, no, not first time. But the first again one. Their swirling _need_. Her hitched against that wall, unable to move really, Rio a substantial force at her back. The relief of him filling her as her cunt clamped and shuddered round him. Mutually assured disruption.

Maybe somewhere in a different universe there’s another version of them. One less stupid. Their reality not so rent and torn.

Beth shakes her head. Tries not to acknowledge the other, empty, condom next to the tissue. Bends down. Shoves her wrist into the mystery space. Collides with cloth, triumphant.

How like him, intentionally or not, to hide her clothes from her for a moment she’d be desperately seeking the escape they’d warrant.

She cannot stave the sense memories however; they invade.

Her riding him last night – or, possibly-technically, earlier this morning – in this very bed she’s next to. His entranced face. How she had to bend hers. Perhaps not entirely to avoid the sight.

Then – then a couple of hours later, she’d hazard if she had to. How she woke. Writhing against him. Rio encouraging her up, his breathless laugh when she’d collapses her elbows down, that noise changing the longer she wiggled her ass at him. The volume she screamed her relief as he fucked her _hard_ , not caring at _all_ who might hear.

Him pulling out; her twisting her neck round at him, confused. Beth watching him yank the condom off, throw it haphazardly. That _st_ _rain_ as he tugged her ass cheeks apart. Rio nudging the wedge of his cock between, flat against the crack. Rubbing himself off that way, till he spurted up her back, while she practically _purred_.

The new fun of that not-quite-exhausted feeling after. Manufactured joy still sparking in her brain, joining the rest of the cocktail. That ease with which he hauled her off to the shower, the eagerness with which she – complied. _Knowing_ they were going to fuck in there, she could see it ahead of her, some part of her pushed to glass or tile. Instead they just cleaned up. The awe she felt when he gathered her to his front, working an orgasm out of her slow, gliding and gliding at her clit. Mouth muttering kisses against the outside of her neck. The water never cooling, though they. Lingered.

Towelling off after, and how entranced they both were by droplets traipsing. Shit. Beth’s pretty sure there may’ve been some soft nose-on-nose action.

That image makes her cringe. Worse than the one of his... _suggestion_. Based on how much she seemed to like clearing seed off her tits in front of him.

She yanks out the garment viciously. Is disappointed when it turns out to be familiar – soft and light grey – but very much not hers. Simply the undershirt he had on last night. _Fuck_.

“That’s a view,” bustles from behind her.

She stiffens. The urge to turn on him is easy to subsume, given the circumstance.

“So _red_.” Jesus, his vocal cords sound like she’s been going at them with one of the good steel scouring pads.

Beth straightens up, attempts to pull her ass _in_. It’s even less effective than it was when Mrs Damask used to yell at her to do it _somehow_ during her final years of ballet lessons. And those mostly ended in Beth being smacked on the butt with a slipper.

She’s. She’s got a pretty good idea of what _areas_ he could be referring to. Though, as her feet shift, Beth winces again at the ache in her back, thighs. Sort of wants to twist to check he hasn’t flayed a bunch of skin off her there, or pushed easy bruises to it.

Straining at the shirt in her hands, she tries to get it covering as much as possible with a tilt to the diagonal, before drifting round. He’s sprawled on his side, facing her, head propped on elbow, the length of his body on full display.

She averts her gaze very carefully from his crotch, skirts off the almost-familiar scars (including the one on his thigh which she can claim no credit for), but her vision catches and boggles on – jesus – something resembling an almost complete necklace-chain of what must be hickie bruises, dipping far below the medallion stuck to his skin, and indeed his collarbone. Her cheeks flame.

“Breakfast?” he suggests.

Eyes flying higher, she expects to find at least hints of suggestiveness, or regret, on his face. Instead he looks _roughened_. Eyes bleary, definitely heavily bagged. Stubblier than usual, she thinks. The word scrumptious flies into her mostly empty head.

“Um,” she prevaricates, more than a little thrown by his ease.

Beth catches the shirt carefully with her elbow, allowing her to rub sleep from one eye then the other with the heel of her hand.

“I’m not hungry…” She certainly doesn’t mean for it to come out anywhere near a question, yet her voice quavers high at the end. Because it’s _curious_ , okay. Normally after a night out, she needs large quantities of grease. And yesterday was certainly a _big_ one.

Even the steady thrum of her caffeine-addiction appears to be heavily dulled, a baseline murmur.

He nods. Waves a finger, not particularly _at_ her, more for the air, like it can’t be trusted. His lips split, purse, suggesting he’s chewing on words as his eyelashes scurry.

“That’s the comedown fucking with you,” Rio declares.

Then, rapidly pushing out of the bed and striding past her, as if she’s mere interior architecture, “Gotta get ahead of it.”

Beth’s feet instinctively trail her behind him a few steps, a respectable chunk of distance separating them yet, as he situates himself in the kitchen area.

And it’s abrupt. The awareness that this isn’t – a hotel, a showroom. It’s his home, right. Or one of them. The similarities to the one she broke into certainly noticeable.

She watches with mounting horror as he pours oil into a pan, then heats it – all while remaining entirely _naked_. Of course the man who constantly dares people to shoot him taunts kitchen appliances to damage in similar fashion.

Her eyes catch at an angry mark on the side of his waist. It looks a lot like it might match the shape of her teeth. Ugh. There are no curtains nor blinds over the strangely sized kitchen windows. Bright light streams in, leaving nothing to the imagination. Shit what time _is_ it…?

“Can anyone see in?” Beth squeaks, against her better judgement.

He turns to her, and it’s sudden. Like a switch being toggled. The – the almost _leering_. Beth struggles to draw the material of her shirt-shield down over hips and up across breasts at the same time.

“Hope so,” he says, before turning back. Presumably freeing her of his attention due to the sound of spitting oil, surely not from pity for her.

Beth glares at his back. Then, shrugging, she pulls the shirt over her head. It looks kind of – obscene, once it’s on. The material tested to its utter limits by her breasts, barely following the flare of her hips. A sorry excuse for a mini-dress. But – at least it’s something.

The scent of bacon on the air awakens something in her.

She stumbles for it, on instinct. But then – memory strikes and she turns the other way. Cos she recalls now! Yes, she was so fucking excited about being _inside_ finally, somewhere she could liberate herself of bra, that pretty much the _moment_ they were ensconced, she’d yanked her dress up over her head and divested herself of the – _rigging_. Flinging far; wide.

There was a split second where she caught Rio’s eye – he a pace or two off – and thought to feel embarrassed, awkward. Beth couldn’t quite break their shared gaze but her focus tilted down, the edge of her misting vision caught that – yes. She was there in nothing but that red thong and her heels, and he was seriously, _seriously_ staring in, fully-dressed, disbelief; she had been perhaps too brazen. But then. Then he pretty much _lunged_ at her, pressed his body and mouth tight against her, his hands sprawling.

And then he got her to the bed. Or. Hmm, might’ve been the other way around. It’s not like she hadn’t been giving as good as, certainly. And – yeah. Maybe she remembers shoving him back. Climbing atop.

Well.

Beth retraces, staring at the mattress. Considers geometry. Eventually finds her panties bridging a pair of cacti. Which is embarrassing enough. But then Rio turns – diverts from his troublingly expert jumps off the pan’s spits, while she’s running her fingers over the somehow soaked _and_ stiff material, forming a dismayed face at the whole of it, including what appears to be a giant teacup mostly filled with gravel which houses the plants. Her desire to scream ‘buy an apron, you freak!’ at him dies in her throat, murdered by the particularly pointed grin he gains, gazing across her chest. It worsens when he drops his attention to her hand. And she’s _certain_ he can’t see her lower half, tucked behind the shelving, yet she swears he tries.

“Wanna borrow some shorts?” he calls, she assumes to her, his attention already back on the stovetop.

She must have looked a special type of forlorn, or perhaps the full array of his standard personality defects take a while at waking to full strength.

Beth watches him nimbly best another attempted spatter. The shift and pull of his thighs. Back. Arms.

She doesn’t reply, but of course that doesn’t discourage him from dispensing instructions.

“The drawers by the…” his thumb points back above his head, like he’s sure she’s watching. “Bottom one.”

God, she thinks, with a sudden throb of delight. He really must be extra-stupid in the mornings. Granting her of all people licence to snoop.

A second later though he adds, “Hey, can you grab the pig there too?”

Beth blinks, halfway through backing up to the drawers. “The. The what.”

“Pig,” he repeats, firmer, this time properly tossing the word over his shoulder and glancing at her.

Additional trepidation folds in her sinews as she goes to investigate, contemplating – gosh, she’s not even sure what. The idea that he’s strange enough to be storing a live animal or, hell, a dead (possibly sliced) one amongst his clothes seems a little preposterous. But he did once mail her human body parts. _So_.

Surely if there was a live animal trapped in here, she’d hear it? Unless it’s, what, gagged…?

It makes her thoroughly other than eager to push around too much. Beth opens the drawer dramatically far, tugs a pair of shorts out fast. Nothing _moves_ , or squeals. Her eyes find Rio’s rear again. She looks back down. Grabs a second pair, they practically match, only with green accents instead of blue. She throws those to the bed. Then she pokes around with her elbow. Inhales deep and wonders if the bacon has just led to Rio having pork on the brain?

There’s something _hard_ there though, so Beth tentatively digs to the back.

She pulls out something largely muddy brown and vaguely cylindrical. There are raised, glazed portions, but the base is rougher. Her thumb rubs over it and, yeah, it feels like fired clay. There’s a narrow slot at what must be the top and two holes in the passably snout-esque front and, oh. It’s a piggy bank? Why couldn’t he just _say_ that.

Diverted, she rotates it, observing the splashes of colour (white, sky blue, a lighter brown) splotched haphazardly upon it, clearly the work of a child. It’s…okay, it’s objectively cute. Of course she has no idea why he possibly wants it now, but she places the thing on the bed carefully with the black and green pair of shorts, before slinking away to the bathroom.

Once she’s in there, again baffled by the olive and almost-beige colour scheme, and after taking the opportunity to empty her bladder, Beth struggles into the shorts – trying to understand the entirety of this mesh situation and fighting to pull them quite over her ass and hips, despite the stretch to the band. They settle comfortably at her waist though, and she fiddles with the drawstring. Casting her eyes down, she can’t say she thinks them a flattering cut, feels her thighs look _huge_ , but at least it’s clothing of some sort.

Then she sets to work, scrubbing at her soiled thong. Beth finds she has no recollection of any concerted effort, slumped by that club sink, of cleaning his – their – mess away before getting her underwear back on and, uh. Yes. That’s borne out by the. Evidence. Jesus, had she been stumbling around that store or up to the cross-street or rolling in the back seat with it dribbling down her– No. Never mind. Last night, or, whatever, earlier today, is in the past. Locked back there. Exception-dyed.

She squares her shoulders at the space a mirror obviously should be but isn’t. Hangs her, at least now for a different reason, sodden scrap of scarlet off the radiator, willing it to dry fast.

Skipping out of the bathroom, she gathers the remaining shorts and his piggy, taking them over to Rio, who is now wildly over-plating bacon – piling it exceptionally high.

Beth taps him gently with the clay snout. He wheels, then smiles.

He pauses to pull on the shorts right in front of her so she looks – around, her arm warily rising to preface chest.

“Balcony?” It’s phrased sort of as a question, but Beth’s pretty sure it’s not a suggestion. It’s less like his normal bossy bullshit, closer to her conning the kids into thinking they’re independently landing at the choice she’s already made.

She shrugs her lack of disagreement.

He plops a napkin dispenser into her hand – and what, is he running a café here? – before leading them to a nondescript door, twirling the key resting there, and gesturing her through it.

Outside, it’s gorgeous – if overly bright. There are a couple of leafy plants to the left, a sturdy granite-looking table ahead, with some overwrought chairs.

Rio passes her, heads for the table. Beth turns, staring back at the doorway. True, she’s not dallied on a _huge_ number of balconies in her time, but almost all of the ones she’s visited, have been via glass doors. The inside taking advantage of the light and view at any time. Is this some security concern, or simply one more odd quirk?

“This way,” he calls, amused.

Beth obeys the lure of the smell. She sort of takes in the view – roofs and trees and clouds – but mostly just squints at it.

Rio stuffs a piece of bacon into his mouth – cutleryless – then filches a napkin from the holder she’s still grasping, to wipe his slick fingers.

He laughs at her scrunched face. “Still want your shades?”

“ _Yes_.” Adds, nose twitching, “Whole purse would be nice actually.” She mimes talking into a phone.

“Probably by the front door.”

Beth nods, goes to rise.

“Nah, chill,” he tells her. Rio stands and pats at the pockets of the shorts she just handed him, as if there genuinely might be a chance she kitted them out with – whatever farmyard animals he’s on about now. “Gotta grab something anyway.”

She shrugs, has some bacon. It is _good_. She doesn’t even mind having to manhandle it. Maybe he had a point. Of course a broken clock manages to stumble to rightness a couple of times a day.

He pops back shortly, thrusts her purse at her, and places a light blue ceramic pot on the table which – weird, but maybe he finds pottery soothing? It does have mandala-esque patterns around it. Beth’s more concerned with shoving her sunglasses on, sighing at solace.

She powers on her cell phone, finally. Guilt, over what she might have missed, swims through her. As it turns out, there’s a couple of emails for sales which do sound interesting, but aren’t urgent, and a message from Judith about a cake recipe. The same Harley Davidson link that Annie sends every morning now. A text from Dean asking which of the kids is allergic to raspberries, then a follow up: remembering that’s only him. When it becomes clear there’s nothing else, Beth does feel _relieved_ , but also… let down. Like, she could really drop off the face of the contactable planet and no one noticed, nobody needed her?

She’s towed from her thoughts by an indescribable noise, looks up to see Rio (chewing slower than a cow) delicately pulling what essentially looks like a teeny butt plug from the back of the pig. Well, of course he probably has some moral mess-based objection to smashing the things open properly, that tracks.

His fingers delve in, rooting till he triumphantly pulls a couple of unmistakable neat, conical items out.

Beth’s mouth gapes. “Do you…Do you keep drugs in something your child made?!”

Then she sort of wonders if maybe he genuinely doesn’t think that’s atypical, if she shouldn’t have accused with such heat. She’s not sure it’s good manners to tell off one’s host, even if they’re your… Whatever he is. Perpetual antagonist-cum-business associate she’s had sex with enough times that were they anyone else it might feel – normal.

“What?” It’s a cold sort of confused that Rio gives her. “ _I_ made it.”

“Oh,” Beth flushes, tasting genuine remorse. “I mean it. Looks very nice. Uh, abstract. With the…symbolisms?”

He tuts, annoyed-amused. “When I was a kid.” His squint romps.

Her scrutiny narrows, though she’s not sure he can see. “You have stuff from your childhood, here?”

He straight up _laughs_. “Why’s that weird?”

“But this place is so–”

“Ah, tidy?” The interruption is made in a particularly accusatory way, and it makes her flare.

Beth angrily chomps into the piece of bacon she’s been gesturing with.

He’s always pouring the unexpected on her. Maybe he enjoys doing it almost as much as she likes surprising him. That appreciation does nothing to prevent her saying, “ _No_. Serial killer minimalist.”

Rio scoffs. “Look, just cos my place ain’t ugly–”

“My house isn’t ugly either!”

He snorts; she glares.

Perhaps the dark glasses do not entirely hide her expression, because he makes an unimpressed face.

“You really don’t think so?” He mimes a series of ridiculous slopes, adding, “With the – ?”

She shakes her head, insulted, but he’s not even looking, already pulling the lighter from a pocket, swapping it with one of the joints. Then he stoppers the pig, lights the joint in his hand.

The blue pot turns out to be an ashtray, though it appears too pretty for the purpose.

When he nudges the combination of items to her, Beth dodges. “I’m not sure I…”

He jabs his head _very_ dramatically. “Gotta get ahead of it.”

She sighs, ends up inhaling the smoke into her lungs because – god, it can’t get any worse, can it. And he did seem to have a point with the bacon, she has to give Rio that if nothing else.

He stretches wide, something audibly pops. “Jesus,” he practically whines. “Not so young any more.”

That gets her _howling_.

They pass the joint back and forth, a pleasantly unreal, and sweet-smelling, haze enveloping them.

Beth is surprised to find, when she checks, that most of the bacon has disappeared.

Rio licks at his finger-grease in what she considers to be an unnecessarily lewd fashion, before holding a finger up to her in a one-moment kind of gesture. She nods at his impish face, moving her head to a non-existent beat.

Her arms spread from their defensive hold, fingers exploring the whirls of the chair’s frame. Fading in and out of gently drumming at it.

She’s happily cloud-watching when he returns with a couple of mugs in tow.

Beth breathes a relieved, “Coffee?” as he sets them down, glimpsing the dark colour.

She scowls at his refutation, expecting some hipster nonsense about antioxidants.

“Hot Pepsi with honey and lemon.”

Beth splutters, though her mouth feels a little dry for it to be a pleasant, or indeed entirely successful, experience.

“Hot _P_ _epsi_?!”

“Yeah, you put the mugs in the microwave. Not rocket science.”

“That sounds disgusting.”

“C’mon, try it.”

She does, mostly because there’s no other liquid in sight. It’s weirdly kind of – soothing. She maintains a sour look upon her face though, as she works through the drink.

He extracts a packet of gummy worms from the shorts next, with a wink, instructing that she must never inform Marcus about the, high-shelved, secret stash. It’s a ludicrous demand, she and his son are hardly gossip buddies.

“I need soup,” he announces, putting down his, presumably empty, mug definitively.

“What?” Beth snaps, when he adds nothing more. She assumes it must be some weird drug lingo.

“You know, wet food?” He surveys her like she might have a head injury.

Beth blinks. They _just_ ate. She’s about to point it out too, but his phone starts chirping, again and again and again. That clearly draws his attention, as he pulls it from yet another pocket.

She watches him as he frowns at the screen. The breeze jolts at her suddenly, hits her with the awareness of – yeah, the outer world. The weirdness of this all cuts through the mental fog.

Rio’s outraged gaping at his phone looks somewhat – constructed. And Beth is pretty sure she knows how this script is supposed to go, right. It’s clearly her cue to leave, whether or not he’s adding to it with some emphasising play-acting.

“Everything okay?” she asks, with her mildest fake smile. Her fingers grip the sturdy handle of her purse as her mind steers to what she needs – both shoes would be good, ideally her missing clothes. Which must be _somewhere_.

He clears a strange guttural sound from his throat, looking uncomfortable. Then a sly, shy grin tilts his features as he inspects her again. “Remember calling anyone last night?”

Beth squinches into her memory.

But Rio’s already going on. “Apparently we left a _few_ voicemails.”

That does kinda sound familiar now he mentions it, the pair of them laughing and shrieking toward the speaker of his cell.

He turns the screen her way, scrolls up a little so she can see the beginning of Mick’s diatribe. The first three messages are simply ‘WHAT’, ‘THE’ and ‘FUCK’. Then there’s a lengthy and fairly insulting rant about the two of them being the stupidest people he’s ever met, followed by a tangent on how glad he is he left his phone on silent. Rio scrolls down when she nods for him to. The final one does at least start with, ‘hope you had a good night’, but wraps with ‘fuck you’.

When she’s done, glasses shoved to her forehead, they stare sheepishly at each other for a moment.

Her mouth twitches. Opens. Closes. There’s an impetus to point out that generalised insubordination might point to a failure in management technique, but she’s feeling a little too lazy to begin an argument. Her eyes fall to the time display on his phone’s screen, still angled at her, like she’s imbibing that data.

  
“Ah,” she says. “I should get going.”

Rio follows her in, busies himself with tidying crockery.

Beth grabs for the shoe she already unearthed under the bed, finds the other skidded near the bookshelf by the far wall. She makes her way back to the distant front door, twisting and turning. Rio comes along, identifies her black bra atop his coat rack somehow, against the camouflage his uncreative approach to outerwear forms.

Her dress truly doesn’t appear to be anywhere though. She mimics pulling it off and throwing it in various directions for inspiration, blushing when she sees him watching her, entertained by the antics.

“Sure you chucked it?”

Beth shrugs.

Eventually they find it tangled inside his duvet. Like, deep within the cover.

He stares at her, focus roaming her no doubt dishevelled appearance as well as the clothing she holds. That challenging glint forms too easily, identifiably, over him. She can see to her future very clearly like this, how he’ll tease her for hiding in the bathroom to change. Well, just because he’s apparently trying to launch a nudist colony, doesn’t mean she has to join in.

She lifts her shoulders though, simpers syrupy. Throws the bra to her purse. Yanks the dress on speedily, over his shirt and the hideous shorts.

“Oh sorry, did you need these back?” The saccharine flavour of her words coats her front teeth. Or, shit, maybe that’s plaque.

Beth ploughs on, rucking up the skirt a bit, as if to pull off the shorts.

His eyes drop immediately for the motion, she almost winces in sympathy at the way he chews at his lip. That _has_ to hurt. She cannot avoid reliving the reverent slide of his hand over her upper leg, desperate grasps of her hips.

“Mm-mm,” he insists, dragging her wrist away so hard and fast she’s almost tilted off balance. Jesus, why are his hands always so _warm_.

“Keep ‘em.” His voice is back to sounding ruined.

“Uh,” she says, hoping she’s not visibly shuddering. “Okay.”

He releases her arm, and she can _breathe_. It’s only a momentary respite though, cos then he’s fiddling with a lock of her hair.

“You know,” he drawls, leaning far too close, “you’re gonna get all sad later.”

Beth nods. This isn’t news. She has a basic understanding of biochemistry, for heaven’s sake.

“Might need some cheering up.”

She doesn’t understand the relevance, her blinks must give her away.

He tugs at the neckline of the dress, and she spasms outraged. The material’s delicate! He merely fingers his undershirt. “Looked _real_ good in just that. Great mood enhancer.”

Beth sucks in a wet breath.

“How ‘bout you get in bed just like that. Get your fingers deep in you. Sure last night got you some…inspo.”

His grin is far too heated. Her cheeks match, and then some.

At least he releases her hair. But then he’s grabbing for her hand again, and her world falls from its spindle. It finds a bizarre new equilibrium when she discovers he’s placing that second joint to her palm, closing her fist round it.

Several interrogatives, statements, exclamations run through Beth’s mind as possible responses to verbalise. She ends up uttering none of them, simply shoves the thing in an interior purse pocket, stuffs her bra deep too, before swinging the Coach onto a shoulder and nodding stiffly at him.

The urge to pronounce it – not again, this is done – is very, very present. But. Maybe mostly because she doesn’t want to be the one agreeing with what’s already stated. He’s saying nothing though. And it’s not like he talks fast at the best of times, Beth’s pretty sure she can interrupt to pip, if necessary.

She steps for the door.

He follows her, makes a show of walking her out.

“Hey,” Rio says when she’s made it over the doorstep, so she rounds to face him. “What you doing next weekend?”

She makes a general gesture of bafflement.

“Might got an acid guy.”

“Ha,” she deadpans.

He half-shrugs, like he can pull that off at _all_. As if he’s not greyish and heavy-lidded in a very different way than she’s ever seen. It’s – kind of obnoxiously attractive. “Now who’s no fun.”

“Shit,” Beth realises. “I had a jacket.”

“Yeah, wanna come look?”

She can’t resist smiling at his continued attempted bravado. He looks like he’s about to fall comatose where he stands.

“It’s probably at the bar.”

He hmms, offers no suggestion about asking after it for her. _Prick_.

She waves a couple of fingers at him in farewell, then _leaves_. Beth doesn’t hear the door shut behind her. So maybe there’s a little extra wiggle to her strut as she’s walking away. But. Her body’s feeling pretty loose still.

*

It’s only once she’s made it outside that Beth realises she hadn’t actually ordered a cab, merely grasped the notion of escape, parlayed it to no pragmatic steps. That reality is a little annoying, given she clambered down all those flights so fast, but at least it’s quickly remedied.

She leans against the brick of a nearby building, desperately hoping that Rio can’t see her, has faceplanted on a bowl of soup already. The wait’s longer than she’d like, her foot taps off the sidewalk, agitated. She’s terribly glad of the sunglasses. Outside of interacting, conversing, her brain dunks at her, the draw of further sleep, true peace, is awfully strong. Her arms fold over her chest, and Beth semi-regrets her bralessness – not only because she feared getting a black eye as she clomped down apparently endless sets of stairs, she feels _naked_. People passing, even on the other side of the street, irritate her with their very existence, she’s certain everything about her appearance screams rumpled, never mind the bizarre lines of her dress due to the underclothing. Her skin strikes as a grainy type of sweaty, like her pores are working overtime at pouring toxins from her.

Finally the guy arrives, and Beth gratefully slumps against the back seat, adjusting her eyewear. The driver is clearly paying her no attention, speaking animatedly into his headset, but she still feels twitchy.

She sneaks a hand inside that interior pocket. Just holds one end of the joint, before zipping everything back up. She simply needed to know it was there. Locked away right.

Then she grabs out her cell phone. Her thumb hovers over Annie’s name in her contacts, sort of itching to call her. But – also.

In the end she constructs a suitably explanatory text, sends it to only Ruby.

She sighs at the incoming call notification that almost immediately generates, but it’s with a fond smile.

“Who the hell is Molly?” Ruby starts with.

“No I mean the–” Beth breaks off to eye the driver, who clearly doesn’t care. “ _Drug_ ,” she concludes in a whisper.

“What?!” Ruby yelps out a laugh. “I’m sorry, you did _what_ last night? _You_ did what last night? You did what _last night_?”

“Well,” Beth huffs. “That.”

“With who? Oh. Okay, if Annie let you get fucked up, without me getting to witness, after all the bitching she’s been doing I am gonna–”

“It wasn’t Annie,” Beth breaks in, quiet and rapid.

“Then who?”  
  


Beth says – nothing.

Ruby makes a quizzical noise. Then Beth hears a sharp intake of breath. “You. Did. _Not_. With gangfriend?! The guy you banged and, you know, bang-banged?!”

Beth quickly nudges the volume down.

“Spill! Did you have fun at least?”

Beth croaks a confused note. Upon consideration, adds, “I had a nice night, yes.”

Ruby sucks in air, so Beth interjects, fast, “I was actually calling to ask if,” she pauses briefly, noting what sounds almost like some light scuffling on the other side of the line. It doesn’t become clearer, so she carries on, gently frowning, “If you had any comedown advice?”

Suddenly there’s a weird scrape, then some subdued panting over the line.

“Beth?” It’s Stan’s voice.

“Yeah?”

She listens to yelling from Ruby about how unreasonable he’s being. Stan’s obviously holding the phone away from him when he replies, but he’s not covering the speaker, so she catches him chastising his wife for her lack of empathy in a crisis.

Stan comes back on the line, though Beth can still pick out Ruby griping at him. The whole thing makes her cheeks hurt. “You got any weed?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Really?” Stan appears very happy for her. “Cool. And can you get some soup?”

Beth’s already giggling when she tells him she reckons she can Postmates some up, so his chuckling, and joking about how they’re already living in the future, gets her going worse.

Ruby yells at him to interrogate Beth properly or return her phone. Her demands that at least the orgasm number be ballparked get quieter, it seems like Stan might’ve ducked out of reach again, briefly.

“Did you have a good night?”

“Yeah,” Beth says. “Yeah, I did.”

“Good. You wanna hang by yourself today?”

“Yeah, I mean. I think so.” Beth runs her finger over the pocket’s bulge.

“All right, we can pop by tomorrow after church. With some chilli.”

“Oh my gosh,” Beth sighs. “Seriously?”

Stan mmhmms.

“That would be. Amazing. I love you guys.”

Ruby’s noises raise in volume again.

“Okay,” Stan says, “I’m handing you back.”

“Oh actually,” Beth tries. “I have to go.”

Stan brays a sarcastic laugh. “No, no. Not a chance in hell.”

Beth _does_ manage to beg off the call after a further five minutes – appeasing Ruby with promises to tell her the story properly when she’s feeling vaguely human, and not in a cab. Pointing out that Annie knows nothing of the tale, maybe never should, definitely helps.

*

Once she’s home, Beth impulsively seats herself half out her French windows and smokes a third of her joint, ashing into an empty plant pot, feeling kinda edgy. She goes online and orders Kenny a new beanbag while she’s there, thinking little more than a pleased _whatever_.

Then she wanders in the bathroom to take a very enjoyable shower. She’s fascinated by the press of water over her exhausted body. After stepping out and towelling off, she is confronted once more by the sight of Rio’s clothes with her dress. And. Yeah. Fuck it.

Beth pulls on the undershirt and shorts once again – they’re _comfortable_ , and it’s not like anyone can see her. She lingers back in her seat, smokes the whole rest of the thing without planning to. Ends up feeling excessively good. Numb in a wonderful way, now unable to access her fretting.

She shuts up the door, and the curtains – despite the early hour. Fiddles with a couple of apps till she’s got The Velvet Underground blasting loud. For a few moments she twiddles, dances. But soon she collapses backward on the bed, shoves off the shorts.

Once she’s situated under the covers, she grabs for her vibrator. Its buzz does cut through the music significantly, which is a shame, but as she’s running it over her lips and clit, Beth becomes somewhat distracted from the tunes. She teases at herself till it’s like there’s a reservoir layer of wetness seeping out of her. Finally she plunges it _deep_ within, thinking mostly about the present moment, how good she feels in it, not about Rio pushing into her– Or telling her to do – _almost_ this.

The drone is. Loud. Maybe louder then her noises. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell. Things.

Later, when she’s half-drowsing, her phone beeps. It’s a message from Rio, asking if she did as suggested.

Beth writes back, ‘never’. Impulsively, she decides to follow that up with a picture. Initially she’s tempted to simply photograph her glistening vibrator, but then she gets her breasts, still – just about – covered by his shirt, into frame instead. She wasn’t intentionally trying to get so much of her hair surrounding, but she decides she’s happy with how it falls. Sends it along.

And then she’s just – too overwhelmed by it all. So she dims her screen, pushes her phone away. Lets her eyes shut and her mind float. It’s filled with nonsense part-words, the shape of random sounds. Flittering down from constant over-stimulation too long. A rhythm taps there, one which could be imabic, but might be a song from that club.

There’s a refrain threading below it though, hitting the off-beat. It sounds a lot like Rio’s voice. Not from today, or last night – not that she can say when one arced into the other. It’s from weeks ago. Telling her it’s a trial. Just a trial. Just a trial. Just a trial.

A couple of hours later, she stirs. Hopefully this does not represent the beginnings of a new routine.

When she glimpses her cell, there’s a new message – from him.

It’s a photo. Capturing one of his hands, unmistakably gripping the base of his cock. Holding a red scrap of material which – shit, Rio probably thinks she left as an intentional memento.

Beth clenches. Then thinks – _fuck it_. And turns off her phone.

**Author's Note:**

> leeeeeeesten, there's always emergency weed in the pig!
> 
> title is from Do You... by Miguel
> 
> I had author bingo board 3: https://goodgirlsficrecs.tumblr.com/AC3 and i'm pretty sure i hit a couple of squares along the way? but look i've played a fair bit of bingo in my time and i've literally never hit a line so it's all a pretty sore subject.
> 
> this is my first/only prompt fill so @ mystery prompter i hope you feel i did it justice! i definitely had fun :)


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